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I read everything Kerouac I could before taking that trip, with hopes of making my time in Lowell as meaningful as possible as I retraced the streets, steps and places prominent in his life and works.

Ma slid over to the passenger side of the Rambler’s bench seat as Dad got in and took the wheel, not saying a word to either of us. As we drove, I remember thinking Lowell was nothing like I’d imagined it would be, and I didn’t give it another thought until 1990.With this kind of boost, why would our allies take seriously Trump’s demand that they come up with their “fair share” of defense costs? A 31 percent cut in environmental protection, including reducing Great Lakes cleanup from 0 million to million.Isn’t the negotiator-in-chief undercutting his own bargaining position? We’re going back to the bad old days when the Cuyahoga River (flowing into Lake Erie) caught on fire due to the toxins in the water.And how would the United States pay for this increase? Maybe deregulating health and safety will mean fewer people living long enough to need government benefits!Is that a component of the GOP’s so-called “dynamic scoring?Mike Boudreau grew up crisscrossing the city of Boston before settling in Tyngsboro, MA, in 2002. This post is part of a memoir, “Acts of Contrition.” At the time Dad met my mother in late 1950, it was a couple of years after his stint in the Coast Guard.

He had apparently just come back to Boston from living in Texas for a while, and moved back into that small apartment in the Mission Hill Projects in Roxbury with his parents, that oddly enough, was just a few hundred yards from where we’d all later end up at 33 Plant Court.

It was a cold but brilliantly sunny day, and I felt excited and alive to be on this unexpected adventure, about to take my own Kerouac city tour.

The Visitor Center was nestled among some of those old brick mills I’d seen so long ago, these now repurposed to house it and what appeared to be apartments or condos.

Other than my mother dragging me along with her one early winter day in the early sixties for the long ride up Route 3 to pick up Dad from work, Lowell was “foreign” to kids like me from “JP” where we were now living following, yet again, another eviction.

To us, places like Lowell, we presumed, were populated by dangerous and territorial kids, far afield from the sanctuary of our own friends and neighborhood.